A to B

An airport. Some see it as a nuisance, I see it as a story.

Airports are places of new beginnings and long-awaited ends, arrivals and departures, "once upon a time's" and "happily ever after's." First page, City A, second page, bad airplane movie, third page, City B, fourth page, adventure begins.

We start in one place, on one common ground we end up in another, thousands of miles away, on another common ground. We board in winter and land in summer. We start one person, we end completely changed. We begin in our comfort zone and end a thousand miles from it.

Everyone has a story, and an airport is a library full of them. Families reuniting upon arrival, parents separating from their children before security as they pack of for the first time—emotions, tears, smiles, "I love you's," goodbyes, boarding calls. Airports play host to the great moments, to the everlasting memories, to the new chapters. 

An airport is neither here nor there, but it is the train to Hogwarts, the door to Narnia, and the gateway to where I feel most content. 

I am my happiest self on an airplane 10,539 meters in the air. The anticipation that envelopes me, the excitement that refuses to be tainted by the less than satisfactory airplane food, the curiosity that overcomes my senses, all make me smile to myself and feel perfectly, incandescently content. 

My house may be in Potomac, Geneva, Paris, or on the moon, but my home is the airport. Masses of people, each with a story to share, direct flights to opportunities all over the world, friends, acquaintances, lives, memories, all together in one building with the common hope of going somewhere and finding their home, where they are truly from. So as I sit typing on my laptop, 10,539 meters in the air, I now know where I belong. It is not a place but a moment: this one.

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